


The Hitch

by jeeno2, nymja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Epistolary/Prose fusion, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Modern AU, Wedding!!!, bde (big dad energy)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/pseuds/jeeno2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: Arya and Gendry are getting married. Sansa’s arranging all the details. All their friends are invited.It goes about how you'd expect.------(Or: A Series of Unfortunate Wedding Events)





	1. Prologue: Goin' to the Chapel

**Author's Note:**

> Jeeno: *sends Nymja a tumblr prompt: “Sandad and Dad!vos plan Gendrya’s wedding!*
> 
> Nymja: *asks Jeeno if she wants to co-write the thing*
> 
> This pointless-ish fluffy fic: *ensues*

 

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

* * *

 

“I hate this.”

Gendry takes a small step back so he can see the little grey wedding invitation Arya just shoved in his face. He reads it silently to himself, then frowns.

“What’s wrong with it?” He pauses. Reads it again. “Looks like Sansa went with nice card stock.”

“What do you mean, _what’s wrong with it?”_ Arya throws the stupid thing down on their kitchen table. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“If it was obvious I wouldn’t have asked you what was wrong with it.”

Arya folds her arms in front of her chest and glares at her big dumb boyfriend. No; her big dumb _fiance_. It’s been more than a year since Gendry asked if she wanted to get married and she said yes, but the terminology surrounding all of this is still strange and unfamiliar to her. Like a new pair of shoes that still don’t quite fit.

“This isn’t going to be what we wanted,” Arya mutters. She’s known it wouldn’t be, of course, from the minute she told Sansa they were engaged and her older sister insisted she’d handle everything. She should _never_ have agreed to let Sansa handle everything. “There’s going to be bridal showers, and couples showers, and all kinds of other dumb shit that will make us want to gouge our eyes out.” She shakes her head and points accusingly at the invitation. “People are going to show up to this thing all dressed up and phony and it’s going to be the stupidest night ever.”

Gendry steps a little closer to her. He puts his hands on her waist, and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Not _that_ stupid.” He moves even closer. Tugs her to him, until her head rests on his shoulder and he can easily wrap her up in his arms. “We’re getting married, aren’t we?”

She sighs. Nods against his chest. “Yes. We are. But--”

“And that’s a good thing. Right?”

Arya’s heart clenches a little at the hint of uncertainty she hears in his voice. She flashes back to that year after she graduated college, when she blew hot and cold with him in a way she cringes to think of now.

But that’s all in the past now.

“Yes,” she says, very quickly. “Of course it’s a good thing.”

“Good,” Gendry says. He holds her a little tighter. “So. It’s not stupid, then.”

Arya tilts her head so she can look up at Gendry’s face. He’s letting his hair grow out again, and while Arya pretends she doesn’t care what his hair looks like, secretly, she’s glad. She reaches up, and winds her fingers through it, enjoying the way his eyes flutter closed as she does it.

“Sansa’s going to make me wear a white dress.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to have to wear a tux.”

“Mhmm.”

“And…, Jesus, Gendry, we’re going to end up with so much kitchen shit we don’t need. We won’t even know what to do with half of it.”

Gendry laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

To Arya’s frustration, Gendry has never seemed at all upset by any of the things that are driving her fucking insane right now. Just the opposite. His blue eyes are bright with amusement as he regards her, and his smile--a near-permanent feature on his face ever since she told him _yes_ \--stretches from ear to ear.

“Why aren’t you as annoyed as I am?” she asks.

Gendry doesn’t answer her right away. Instead, he looks past her, getting that look he always gets when he’s trying to work out the best way to word something important.

“I guess it’s just…” He trails off. Presses another gentle kiss to her forehead. “At the end of it all you’ll be my wife, and I’ll be your husband. I guess I don’t really care what hoops I have to jump through to get there, is all.”

“But we don’t _have_ to jump through _any_ hoops to get there.” Arya jabs a finger at the invitation again. “We don’t have to do any of the stuff Sansa wants us to do. We could just--”

“What?” Gendry asks. “Run off to Vegas? Get married this weekend?”

Now he’s getting it. “Exactly.”

He shakes his head. “And ruin Sansa’s plans? Disappoint literally everyone we know?”

Arya closes her eyes. Sighs.

He has a point there.

“Look, Arya.” He pulls her close again and rests his chin on top of her head. “We just have a few more months to get through, right? Just a few more months of insanity, of stupid parties where we’re rolling our eyes and laughing behind all our friends’ backs. And _then_ …” He pulls back and looks into her eyes. Waggles his eyebrows. “And _then_ , it’ll be just you, me, and Maui for ten glorious days.” He kisses her nose. “You can bring your bikini if you want. Or leave all your bathing suits at home. Up to you.”

He grins at her, and Arya swats his chest.

“Fine,” she says, petulant. Resigned. “I won’t run away. Or ask you to run away with me.”

Gendry chuckles a little. “Good.”

“But I refuse to do any crafts at Sansa’s stupid bridal shower.”

“Ooooh,” Gendry says, in mock horror. “Well, I don’t blame you there. Maybe just try and drink your way through it?”

“Don’t think I won’t.” She smirks at him. “Sandor’s probably going to drink himself blind.”

“Wait. You’re inviting _the Hound_ to your bridal shower?”

Arya nods. “Of course.”

“But… but _why_?”

“Because he’s one of my bridesmaids. If I have to go through this I need to have someone there with me who’s at least as unhappy as I am.”

There’s more to it than just that, of course. Much more. But Arya doesn’t think she has the words to explain to anyone just how much Sandor has come to mean to her over the years. Not even Gendry.

To his credit, Gendry doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I’d say I’d like to see Sandor Clegane at a bridal shower thrown by Sansa,” he says, smirking right back at her. “But honestly, I’m glad that that shower is one thing I get to skip.”

Arya sticks her tongue out at him. “I wish I got to skip it, too.”


	2. Stag & Shower

After the fifth topless waitress in as many minutes saunters by their table, staring right at Gendry and winking at him when he accidentally makes eye contact, Gendry has a brief moment of clarity where he tries to decide when, exactly, this evening started going off the rails.

Having a bachelor party hadn’t itself been a bad idea. He’s pretty sure it had actually been a _good_ idea, at the beginning. In theory anyway. Sure, the men in their wedding party are a bit of a motley crew. And sure, spending an evening with both Sandor Clegane _and_ Jon Snow was always going to be a little awkward.

But when he decided to do this, Gendry figured it would be the last chance he’d have to blow off some steam with other guys before the full onslaught of wedding preparations completely took over his life.

And tonight had started off well enough. It really had. They’d ordered pizza. They’d eaten it in awkward silence in Hot Pie’s apartment. When they’d finished it, they’d ordered another pizza.

And then they’d gotten a little drunker than they probably should have at a bar near Gendry’s place.

But now…

_Now..._

_Now,_ there are no words for just how bad things are about to get for him.

He should have put a stop to all this the second he realized where Pod was taking him.

“Arya is going to kill you when she finds out about this.” Sandor-- or, _the Hound,_ as Arya’s family calls him for reasons Gendry’s never really understood--offers unhelpfully from the next table over. He makes a loud, disgusting noise in the back of his throat and spits on the floor. God, he’s gross. Gendry will never get why Arya likes him so much. “She’s going to gut you like a fucking fish.”

Gendry groans a little and buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Clegane,” he says. “I’m well aware.” He turns to Pod, hoping he doesn’t look as terrified as he feels. “Why did you bring me here?” Because they’d been having a good enough time back at that bar, drinking beer and pretending like they all liked each other and had things in common. Hadn’t they?

Why couldn’t they have just stayed at that bar and gotten even drunker? Like normal people?

Pod gives him a shit-eating grin. “I told you we were going to a strip club when we left the bar.”

“You didn’t.” Gendry is positive of that. He _never_ would have agreed to this. Why the fuck would he want to look at random naked women when he already has the best, sexiest woman in the entire world willing to sleep with him? And who is going to marry him in less than six weeks?

“I did tell you,” Pod says. His smile grows. “I totally did.”

“ _No,_ what you _actually_ said when we left the bar was we were going to an art museum.” Gendry thought that had sounded like a really smart way to spend the rest of the evening, given that Arya comes from a cultured background and Gendry always feels about ten steps behind whenever he spends time with her family. True, he’s a little too drunk right now to really retain much culture. But he figures every little bit of exposure to art and other cultural stuff probably helps.

At that, Pod starts laughing.

“When I said _art museum_ I figured you knew what I meant.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Who the fuck goes to an art museum during a stag party?” Sandor snorts. “Idiot.”

Gendry turns his head so he can look at the other people with them tonight, hoping at least one of these other goons will back him up and give him permission to get the fuck out of here. No such luck. There’s Jon Snow, Arya’s cousin, looking up at the ceiling and giving the impression that he’d rather be literally anywhere in the world other than here. Sitting next to him is Davos--the closest thing Gendry has ever had to a father figure--biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

Hot Pie, that good-for-nothing shithead, is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably chatting up some waitress, bragging about how good his muffins are or some fucking thing.

And then there’s the Hound, sitting by himself at the next table over, looking about five minutes away from murdering him.

“So are you going up or not? I ordered you a special lap dance.” Pod waggles his eyebrows like the fucking perv he apparently is. He nods towards the stage, where Gendry assumes there are a whole bunch of... naked women dancing around or whatever. He wouldn’t know; he refuses to look in that direction.

Gendry has never wanted to punch another human being more than he wants to punch Pod right now.

“No,” Gendry says stubbornly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Davos corrects him, chuckling.

“You’re outvoted,” Pod says.

“But---”

“Oh, come on, lad,” Davos says, eyes twinkling. He claps Gendry on the shoulder. “It’s tradition, isn’t it?”

“ _Davos_ , I _can’t--”_

But he doesn’t get out the rest of his sentence, because now Pod and someone else have their hands on him and are dragging him out of his chair. He _thinks_ the other person is probably Jon, though he can’t be completely sure with his eyes closed as tightly as they are.

 _Okay_ , Gendry thinks, his irritation rising as they start dragging him towards the stage.

_Enough is fucking enough._

“Stop it,” Gendry bellows. He throws both people off of him with the strength he usually tries to keep under wraps. But desperate times call for desperate measures. “I will sit here in my fucking chair and stare at the floor for another thirty minutes if it’ll get you to leave me alone. But I am _not_ going up there.” He points to the stage and, against his better judgment, turns his head to look at it while he does.

And… fuck.

He was right.

There are at least ten naked women up there, dancing around poles and chairs and… and various other things.

To his dismay, his dick does not have the same objections to all this that he does.

He tells his dick to shut the fuck up.

“But I paid for the special lap dance,” Pod says, pouting.

“Use it yourself,” Gendry mutters. He stomps back to their table and sits down. “I’m getting another beer.”

In the end, it’s compromise Pod decides he can live with.

\---------------------------------

_A note Gendry finds on their table at Deja Vu Showgirls as they’re getting ready to leave (and then rips into shreds):_

_\---_

_Pod,_

_It was great seeing you again tonight. :)_

_I’m not supposed to do this but… if you ever wanna catch up sometime, like get a drink or whatever, my number is (812) 555-1363. I get off early on Tuesdays and Saturdays so if you’re interested, let me know._

_(Also, sorry about your friend. You’re right; he does seem kind of boring.)_

_\-- Paige_

\--------------------------------

 

**One Week Later.**

Fuck their wedding. Fuck their friends. Fuck them both.

“Do you want a mimosa?”

Fuck it all.

“Get over yourself,” Arya says to his side. She’s wearing a bright pink sash, mirrored sunglasses, and a mild hangover from him taking her to a dive bar the night before. “It’s still wine.”

Sandor glares at her. Then the server. Then the group of women giggling over lingerie on the other side of the table. Resigned, he grabs the flute, tosses it back like someone taking medication, and sets the empty glass down on the tray. Then he sits with it.

“Three more,” he decides.

The server looks a little nervous before he nods, backing away slowly.

It’s eleven in the morning, and Sandor Clegane is sitting poolside with Arya Stark, her sister, and a bunch of women he hasn’t bothered to care about. So far he’s been subjected to Arya opening up presents (all of which were lingerie), brunch (wafers were not food), and a game of trivia about the happy couple (“Okay, Sandor, how old is Gendry?”  "Why the fuck should I care?”). It’s been one of the worst mornings of his life, only tolerable because Arya was attempting to drink them both into complacency in the face of Sansa’s bridal shower.

“Still time to run,” he offers.

“No there’s not,” she counters. “Sansa and Margaery both ran track.”

Sandor snorts, attempting to stomach another one of those wafers. It tastes like fucking garbage and pistachio crème. “The twat’s stag party keeps looking better.”

Arya tilts her head, eyebrows raising in a rare show of surprise. “You had more fun at an art museum? Really?”

Sandor parts his lips, sighs, then closes them. 

The server comes back with a fresh tray of mimosas-

“It’s time for crafts!” Margaery proclaims with enthusiasm.

Sandor looks at Arya, who is trying and failing to suppress a smirk. Without a word, he takes one of the mimosas from the server’s tray. Downs it. Then the next. Then the last: 1, 2, 3. When they’re all gone, he looks the server dead in the eyes.

“You know what you should be doing.”

“Y-yes! Of course!” He turns to Arya. “And for the bride-to-be?”

“What he’s having.”

Sansa Stark stands at the head of the table, wearing a sundress and an expression that says they should prepare for war. She starts to lift bins: bins full of ribbon, bins full of scissors, bins full of popsicle sticks and cardstock and hot glue. Sandor and Arya lean back in their chairs at the same time, him crossing his arms over his chest and Arya folding her hands on her stomach.

“She went full Etsy,” Arya whispers, the pair apparently a united front now.

“What the fuck’s an Etsy?”

“We’re all happy to be here celebrating Arya and Gendry’s wedding,” Sansa begins. It looks like the one with a child (Guppy? Gilly? Finny?) is about to clap, but Sansa does not present the opportunity before she continues. “I thought it would be...fun if we worked together to finish a few of the remaining projects needed for the ceremony-”

“What is this shit?” Sandor mutters to her.

“Do it yourself.”

“I’m asking _you_ , girl-”

“No.” Arya lets go of a long, haunted sigh. “You’ll see.”

A semi-transparent bin is set in front of him. Sansa smiles down at them, but there’s a coldness to her gaze that makes him tense.

“Place cards,” she says to him, steel in her voice. Then sets another bin in front of Arya. “Party favors. Don’t get too drunk, because we only have two hours to make the most of these people and Jeyne can’t arrange a centerpiece to save her life.”

\---

Twenty minutes and eight empty mimosa flutes later, he has a stack of cardstock, a seating chart, and a grip on a calligraphy pen that implies it could very easily be used as a weapon. There’s a pile of crushed cardstock by his feet.

“Why isn’t Jon here?” He grunts, trying and failing to hold the stupid pen right. Ink blots up because he hesitates too long, blurring his filigree. It’s fucking ruined. He smashes it into a ball so roughly that one of Arya’s guests, Jeyne or something, visibly recoils behind a doily. Sandor pays her no mind, starting over on Table 1.

“I didn’t make him come,” she says, eyes narrowed in concentration as she assembles a small burlap bag. It smells like a fucking pine cone. “He would’ve hated this.”

“And I wouldn’t?” _And gods fucking damned it_. He rips the cardstock in half and has to count to ten before he flips the table over. At the sound, Sansa’s head snaps up and she narrows her eyes at him. He scowls, but dutifully slides out another piece of cardstock.

Arya sniffs the pine cone-bag, makes a face, and sets it aside. “Honestly? I thought it’d be funnier.”

Sandor works his jaw as he replaces the pen with a flathead brush, because he’s about to attempt Blackletter script and he’s not a fucking animal. “You can’t be enjoying any of this shit.”

“The underwear was fun.”

He swears his teeth are grinding.

“Anyway,” Arya continues. “It’s not for me. It’s for Sansa.” She ties a tag around the bag. He’s not sure if it’s the little “A+G” on it or the alarming amount of orange juice in his gut that makes him nauseous. “If you’d been to any weddings, you’d know most of this is for the family.”

At that, he silently attempts another place card. This one looks halfway decent. “...Keep my glass full or I’ll murder everyone here.”

“Fine, but not Sansa.”

He considers. “Not Sansa.”

“Deal.”

There’s the gentlest ‘ting!’ of glass as Arya knocks her mimosa flute against his.

\---

When the bridal shower winds down, Sandor stops Arya before she leaves. One of his hands cups the back of her head, and he manages a thin smile.

“Here,” he states, putting something in her hand.

Arya looks down at the present. “A multi-tool?”

“More useful than fucking underwear.” He clears his throat. “Hit that side button and a knife pops out.”

“Sandor, thank you.”

His thin smile twitches upward. Then he downs one more mimosa for the road and vows to never come to one of these fucking things again.

\---------------------------------

_A place card thrown away by Sansa Stark:_   
  


[ ](https://imgbb.com/)


	3. 3 Minutes

* * *

 

_ An impromptu texting session at 1:34 a.m. the night before the wedding ceremony.  
_

* * *

__

**gendry**

**are you awake**

_ yes _

_ can’t sleep _

_ Too nervous _

**_I can’t sleep_** **either**

**This bed is shit**

_ sorry :*( _

**I can’t believe you agreed to this**

**This is so stupid**

_ I mean _

_ It’s tradition, isn’t it? _

_ To not see the bride the night before the wedding _

_ Or... something like that.  _

_ Right? _

**gendry**

**we live together**

_ I know _

**it’s not like my virtue is suddenly going to grow back or whatever**

**just by spending our final night apart**

_ I know  _

_ I know _

_ Sansa cornered me. I panicked, okay? _

**i mean you’ve already seen me naked like**

**what**

**five hundred times? A thousand?**

_ oh god _

_ Please don’t remind me of your naked body right now _

_ It’ll just make this harder _

**… make WHAT harder, exactly?**

_ ARYA _

_ Jesus  _

_ that is _

_ not funny _

**yes it is**

_ … okay. Maybe it’s a little funny _

_ It’s… also not inaccurate _

**HA**

**oh**

**i just had an idea**

_ Uh oh _

**i don’t think there’s rules against texting the night before the wedding, right?**

_ I have no freaking idea if there are or not _

_ Somehow i don’t think they anticipated smartphones when they invented this tradition _

**well i’m making an executive decision here and saying it’s fine**

**anyway Sansa’s asleep down the hall and i’m not waking her to ask**

_ Davos is snoring his head off in the next room and i’m not asking him either _

**great. It’s settled.**

**So. You remember those texting sessions we had that week you were out of town for work?**

_ Uhhhhhhhh _

_ Yeah? _

_ Of course? _

**so what i’m thinking is**

_ Jesus, like i could ever forget THOSE conversations _

**we can do that now, maybe**

**…** _ fuck _

_ Arya  _

_ are you sure? _

**lol yes**

**why not?**

_ I mean _

_ You’re in the house you grew up in _

**so what?**

_ Oh God  _

_ Okay _

_ I mean _

_ Yeah. Okay. _

**just try and be quieter this time okay?**

**i think Davos is a light sleeper**

_ …. I will. I promise _

_ Also, i love you _

_ So freaking much _

**i know <3**

* * *

  
  


It’s a bit tricky, what with his hand and a general avoidance of ties in his life, but the knot slides up smoothly. Davos claps a hand on Gendry’s shoulder once it does. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” Gendry says, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt for the third or fourth time. He pats down the tie, trying to make it as smooth as possible. Since it was already smooth, this makes it wrinkle. 

Davos gently corrects it. “You look fine, lad.” A bit of a grin. “Handsome, even.”

Gendry sends him an appreciative look, his ears a little red. Poor boy’s been practically vibrating since they arrived at the site for the wedding. It’s starting to get dark, and in the distance Davos sees a few people lighting the candles that frame the trail leading up to the large tree where he’s to perform the ceremony. It’s a family tradition of the Starks to be married outdoors, and he thinks it’s a good one. From what he understands, this is the same tree Arya’s parents had wed under.

“I think I’m sweating everywhere,” Gendry confesses, fidgeting with the cuffs for now the fifth time. 

“Nerves?”

“No, not nerves.” He smiles. “I’ve never been as sure about anything. I’m just nervous.”

Davos nods, because that almost makes sense. He’d been a similar mess at his own wedding to Marya. It’s a special sort of excitement that he’s sure Gendry is experiencing, albeit a sweaty one. Davos takes a step back, both hands on his shoulders now. This might be the happiest he’s seen his fellow boy from Flea Bottom. 

“You remember your parts?” He asks.

Gendry nods.

“Good. The rings?”

“Hot Pie’s got them.”

“...and you’ve got Hot Pie?”

Panic crosses Gendry’s face, as he starts looking around. “I  _ just  _ saw him-”

“Sorry sorry sorry,” Hot Pie says, rushing up to them. “Arry needed something from me last minute.”

Gendry turns his head to the building where the bridal party’s getting ready. “How’s she doing?”

His best man’s face breaks into a grin. “She’s really pretty.”

“She’s always pretty.”

“This time in a dress.”

“That would be part of it, yes.” Davos drops his hands from Gendry’s shoulders. “Ready?” 

He nods. 

Davos pats him on the back. “Good lad.”

\--

Davos and Gendry stand underneath the tree together. As the designated officiant, he was tasked with writing out the ceremony. He looks at his notes for about the third time, and feels confident enough in them. Though he spots an extra comma and dangling modifier. But it’s too late to take a pencil to it for corrections.

“How do we know when it’s starting?” Gendry asks,  _ fidgeting  _ once more. 

Davos peers at him from over his reading glasses. “When people begin walking in, I’d wager.”

“Right.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, opens his mouth-

“It’ll start soon, Gendry.”

He nods, tugging on his jacket, and Davos smiles to himself at the lad’s excitement. 

True to his word, the wedding does start.

The candles lighting the walkway glow a warm orange, creating a feeling of peace and calm that Davos is convinced Gendry is not feeling. The first pair to enter are...odd, to say the least. Sandor towers over Hot Pie, who keeps sending him nervous looks. Sandor ignores them, his entire body radiating an energy that articulates “don’t fucking touch me.” 

When they get to the end, Sandor meets his gaze. Sighs.  _ Guess this is happening. _

Davos raises his brows.  _ Yes, so behave. _

Sandor sends Gendry a  _ look _ , but moves to the bride’s side without any comment. Davos is proud--that could, quite possibly, be growth on the man’s part. Hot Pie moves quickly to Gendry’s side, his smile big and wide now that he’s no longer standing by the Hound.

“She’s still coming,” Hot Pie tells him in a whisper that is not as quiet as he thinks it is.

“Thanks, Hot Pie,” Gendry mumbles back.

“And I’ve got the rings.”

“Thanks, Hot Pie.”

“And-”

“I’m going to pay attention to my wedding now, if that’s alright.”

“Oh, right. ‘Course.”

Davos watches as Sansa and Podrick appear, the two a far better couple than Sandor and Hot Pie. He’s been wonderfully ignorant to most of the wedding planning, but he knows that the majority of it is due to the bride’s sister. She looks happy, smiling kindly at Gendry who gives a little smile back before she goes to stand behind Sandor. 

In the distance, there’s finally two figures making their way down. 

“Shit,” Gendry says to himself, “Shit that’s her.”

“Yes, she’s an important part,” Davos observes. 

Arya is beautiful and confident as she walks toward them, arm-and-arm with her cousin Jon. Sansa starts to sniffle, and at the noise Sandor rolls his eyes and pulls out his pocket square for her. Davos slides his gaze to Gendry, because he is a bit of a romantic at heart. He’s pleased to see the boy’s smile is wide and his cuffs-- _ finally _ \--are no longer being fussed with.

Jon and Arya reach the end, and Gendry steps forward. He and Jon lock eyes, and Jon gives Gendry a nod. There’s a bit of a lull, and Davos realizes it’s his turn to talk.

“Right then. Who is here before the Gods tonight?” Or was it whom? No. Who. 

“Arya Stark,” Jon announces. The next few lines, old ones about giving and claiming, he was told to skip. And so, Jon simply hugs Arya. They hold onto each other for a long time, Jon kissing her forehead before he steps back next to his other cousin.

Then, Arya and Gendry stare at each other, Gendry looking a little dazed and Arya grinning. Arya grabs one of Gendry’s hands with her own. Davos feels like he’s intruding. Which is an odd thought, as he’s officiating. But best to get on with it all. So he licks his thumb, turning the page to his next set of notes.

“Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon are getting married tonight,” he says, matter of fact. “Which is good.” He turns to the next page of notes. “Gendry Baratheon, do you take this woman?”

“Yes.”

Davos nods. “Arya Stark, do you take this man?”

“Yes.”

Another nod. It’s all going smoothly so far. “And the rings?”

Hot Pie has to search two pockets, at which it looks like poor Gendry is about to have a heart attack. Finally, he pulls out a small, velvet box. Gendry takes out the rings, then looks at Davos. 

Davos jerks his head, indicating that Gendry should give one to Arya. He blushes when he does so. “Very nice,” Davos compliments. Then instructs: “Now exchange them.”

“I love you,” Gendry says as he starts to slide a ring on Arya’s finger-

“Wrong one, lad,” Davos whispers.  

-as he starts to slide a ring on a different finger.

“I love you, too,” Arya states, as she does the same, getting it right on the first try.

Davos turns to his final page of notes. He looks at Gendry, then Arya, but neither are really paying him any mind now. So he clears his throat. “Good, then. That does it.”

“That’s it?” Gendry asks, the small spell he was under breaking.

“Aye, that’s it.” Davos considers. “You can kiss if you’d like.”

Arya’s hand grabs onto Gendry’s tie, pulling him down so quickly he almost trips.

Apparently, they would like. 

\--

“That was three fucking minutes,” Sandor states as they follow the happy couple out.

“Should it have been more?” Davos asks, wondering if he needed another page of notes.

Sandor pulls out a small flask from the inside of his suit jacket. “Should’ve tried for two.”

He passes the flask to Davos, who chuckles a little before drinking. To be young again.


End file.
